Banana milk
by 25Stella27
Summary: John gets a text from Lestrade telling him Sherlock is in hospital. The Consulting Detective turns out to have several broken bones and isn't the exactly the best patient John's ever had. (No slash)
1. Chapter 1

John willed the cab to go faster but will couldn't alter reality. And reality was that he was stuck in the middle of a typical London rush-hour traffic jam. He kept glancing at his phone but Lestrade hadn't sent any more messages. All John had was a text saying that Sherlock was in hospital, no specifications made.

_Calm down,_ he told himself. It could be anything. Maybe just the sprained ankle, which had bothered Sherlock for some days... Yet there was certain evidence going against this: If it was something minor, Sherlock could have texted him himself or Lestrade would've told all along it wasn't serious.

Furthermore, a sprained ankle wouldn't require him to come asap.

Finally, they reached the hospital and John darted out of the car, almost forgetting to pay the cab driver.

Lestrade was standing in the lobby, looking down at his mobile. John's eyes searched for Sherlock but he couldn't spot him anywhere. It wasn't a good sign, yet it was only to be expected.

"What happened?" John asked anxiously.

Lestrade looked up irritated, then put his phone away as he recognized John.

"Where you are. I've been about to text you..."

"What has happened?", John repeated.

"Sherlock slipped on the top of a staircase. He fell down the stairs and when unfortunately crashed through a window and fell."

John's eyes widened in shock.

"What floor?"

-"First... Could have been worse, I guess."

John nodded quietly. Yes, dropping two meters wasn't nice but the way Lestrade talked about it it didn't seem to be something life threatening.

"Do you know anything about how serious the injuries are?"

"He was in a lot of pain but conscious afterwards. He didn't make a big fuss about going to the hospital but I guess given the circumstances this is nothing to be concerned about."

That Sherlock had been conscious calmed John a bit. It suggested he didn't have a mayor head-injury and Sherlock losing his brilliant mind was one of the worst things he could imagine.

"What kind of injuries does he have exactly?"

Lestrade bit his lip. "I'm not a doctor but from what I saw, I'd say his left arm is broken pretty badly. His ankle didn't look well either. And of course I can tell nothing about internal injuries."

John nodded. So some broken bones. If the breaks weren't too bad this could be cured by some weeks of casts and rest, even though Sherlock probably wasn't going to like it. At all.

They stood there in silence, waiting. John kept shooting looks at his watch trying to estimate how long the tests they were probably running on Sherlock would take.

Finally, a nurse came, asking if anyone was there for 'Sherlock Holmes'.

They told her they were and followed her to a young doctor who was just taking a look at some x-rays.

"You belong to Mr. Holmes?" They nodded.

"He's fallen pretty badly but he doesn't have any internal bleedings or damaged any organs. What he does have though are several broken bones and it will take time and energy to restore his old strength.

His left collarbone is broken in two places and the lower arm is shattered. He won't be able to use it for at least a month but as far as we can tell, there will not be any permanent damage. Then, he has several broken rips, but they aren't dislocated too badly and will probably heal fine one their own.

Unfortunately, his right leg seems to be a little worse. He's fractured his lower leg twice but what it is more concerning is his ankle: The x-rays showed at least four mayor breaks and is severely dislocated.

In order to align the bones he will probably need a surgery, but if there are no complications it will be restored completely, too."

After they'd talked to the doctor John and Lestrade were allowed to see Sherlock. He was asleep now because of the pain medications but the doctor had pointed out that despite he had definitely a concussion the head was injured only in a quite moderate way considering the high of the fall.

The Consulting Detective's arm was in a cast, the right leg in a splint and elevated. "He will hate it", Lestrade murmured quietly. John sighed. Yes, Sherlock would hate the restricted movement, the help he would have to accept...

"It could've been worse, though."

"And it could've never gotten this worse if the two of you would dare to fight the stubbornness of my brother." They turned to Mycroft who had just entered the room. His expression was harder than usual and his eyes appeared as though he hadn't slept in days. "What do you mean?", Lestrade asked.

"I saw the footage of the CCTV. His right foot failed him on this staircase and all of us know he was limping the last few days."

John swallowed. Mycroft was right; he had noticed his ankle was bothering Sherlock on Monday, but when he asked his flat mate to have a look at it Sherlock had blocked him off, telling it was only a sprain.

"From his x-rays I'd say it was broken all along. I really think you should've known better, Mr. Watson."  
John looked at the ground. Yes, he should have indeed insisted on taking Sherlock to the hospital just to make sure. He knew all to well Sherlock liked to hide his pain and didn't care enough about his body.

John spent the night at Sherlock's side. He wanted to be there when Sherlock woke, just in case he would be confused or try to get up or anything similar. Mycroft had left only a few minutes after he'd come, studying the x-rays and other reports in detail, before he told them he was needed somewhere else. For once he didn't seem happy about his job and John supposed it had little to do with him not being able to spent more time with his brother. Lestrade too left but it was shortly past midnight then and he promised to take 'tomorrow's shift' as he put it, so John would have the possibility to shower and get some cloths.

When Sherlock finally woke it was about eight o'clock in the morning and John had just doomed into a dozing state on his uncomfortable chair.

"Have you staid here all night?" John jolted awake. Sherlock was looking at him with a calm expression and he couldn't help thinking the Consulting Detective had watched him for some time already.

"Yeah, I suppose so... How are you feeling?"

Sherlock attempted to shrug but instantly regretted it for his broken collarbone.

"Been better. Way better in fact. What do the doctors say?"

"You've been quite lucky. Just some broken bones."

"Lucky", the Consulting Detective spat. Then: "Help me sit up."

John shook his head. "Not a good idea. You've broken some ribs, and the broken leg better stays above heart level. Even with the splint it looks pretty swollen and the swelling certainly has to be reduced for the surgery on your ankle."

"Surgery?", Sherlock scowled. "Is this really necessary.?"

"Yes, definitely. I saw the x-rays and your ankle is pretty messed up. The bones need setting or they won't heal properly."

Sherlock still didn't seem happy but sighed. "If you say so... Any diagnosis how long I will be on crutches yet?"

"You", John pointed out. "will spent some days in the wheelchair before we even talk about crutches."


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks to everyone who read the first chapter and especially those putting it on alert or even on their favorite list! **

**PS: I didn't mention in the first chapter but reviews are highly appreciated ;-)**

* * *

When the doctors took Sherlock to some examinations to check his organs and head again, John went to Baker Street to change his cloths and take a shower. Truth to be told, he was glad to get away from Sherlock for some hours by then.

When his pain medics had started to wear off the Detective had gotten hard to stand, complaining about everything from the colour of the curtains to the taste of the food.

Furthermore, he had snapped at a nurse to bring him more painkillers, threatening to tell her husband about her affair otherwise.  
"You're being unfair", John had pointed out. "She's just following orders."  
In response Sherlock had mumbled something about "why is she following my brother's orders instead of mine", and John had rolled his eyes.

The worst thing was though that Sherlock had started to argue about his release date. Actually the doctors had agreed on keeping him until some days after his ankle surgery scheduled for the following week but Sherlock insisted on going to Baker Street and then returning to the hospital for the surgery.  
John wasn't thrilled about that idea yet he didn't know much arguments against Sherlock's claims that he had only broken some bones, which would heal just as well at home as in the hospital.

Finally, John had given in and agreed on Sherlock coming to Baker Street on the following day. He knew the flat wasn't very disable friendly but Sherlock explained that John and Lestrade should be able to carry him upstairs in a wheelchair and once in the flat he wouldn't have to move much.

"But I'll have to go to work", John made a last attempt to convince Sherlock but in fact the matter was already decided.

* * *

Sherlock had wanted to go home on crutches, but John wouldn't allow that. The leg was still in a splint, which didn't immobilize the fracture as well as a cast would have and he was determined to move it as little as possible. Furthermore Sherlock would just be able to use a single crutch anyway what was also a risk factor.

"You use the crutch for getting in and off your wheelchair and maybe to do a bit of navigating in the flat but nothing more" John emphazised after almost ten minutes of arguing and Sherlock hesitantly agreed.

In fact the trip to Baker Street seemed exhausting enough for Sherlock anyway. The relatively long time of sitting up made his rips hurt and even though he would probably never admit it, the getting on wheelchair, off wheelchair into cab and from cab to wheelchair again was more exhausting than he would have expected. Furthermore his brother had limited his use of painkillers and he felt a jolt of pain whenever his leg was moved or John or Lestrade accidentally touched his broken arm whilst supporting him.

When Lestrade and John finally lay him down on the couch he went asleep within minutes.

"Did the doctors says when he'll be will be able to walk again?" Lestrade quietly asked as they watched Sherlock's calm breaths.

"It's hard to diagnose... I'd guess it's at least a month before he'll be allowed any weight-bearing and from there on it is still long way to walking unaided. Let's just hope he doesn't try to rush it."

Sherlock spent most of the rest of the day on the couch, drifting between wake and sleep. It was a side effect of the painkillers and the relatively big workout, and John appreciated it in some ways, as Sherlock agreed to let John help him to the bathroom and the Detective even allowed the doctor to feed him some noodles without insisting he had still a working hand he could use. On the evening they watched TV to which Sherlock fell asleep again and John decided not to move him to his bedroom. The movement would hurt and he wasn't sure with what chemicals the bed might be contaminated.

The next day, unfortunately, Sherlock was wide-awake. John could tell he was quite bored from the nervous twitching of the well hand. Furthermore the painkiller seemed to have worn off again and he snapped at John quite often.

"Where's my milk?", Sherlock demanded.

-"I just made you a tea" John called from the kitchen. "You asked for it just five minutes ago."

"I've changed my mind."

-"Sherlock!"

"If you'd made it faster, I might not have."

-"It takes some time to make! You can calculate how long the kettle takes to boil if you like!"

After that Sherlock went quiet and John found himself applying more force to shutting the fridge than would've been necessary.

"Two minute", Sherlock said when John handed him the milk. "It takes to minutes for kettle to boil, but you needed almost six to make the tea."

-"Your point being?"

"You could've brought the tea sooner so I wouldn't have changed my mind." He took a sip of the milk and scowled in disgust. "It's sour."

-"No, it's not!"

"It is."

John rolled his eyes and took the cup away from Sherlock. He took a sip. "Tastes like totally ordinary milk to me."

-"No, it's sour!"

"Well, what then? The tea?"

-"No, I want milk."

"You have milk."

-"Which is sour!"

"Which you think is sour!" John sighed. "Should I go to the supermarket and buy new milk?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't want milk anymore. I would have the sour taste still in my mouth."

John didn't point out Sherlock had also asked for milk after he had drunk the allegedly sour one, but turned to sit down on his armchair and resume reading in his newspaper.

Just as he'd finished rereading the lines he had been at when Sherlock had interrupted him, the Consulting Detective said: "I'm thirsty."

"Look, Sherlock", John said putting the newspaper away. "I'm happy to fetch you anything you ask for, but you have to ask me for something and not change your mind when I bring it."

"I'd want banana juice, I think."

"Banana juice?" John raised an eyebrow. He had never seen Sherlock drinking anything but water, tea and milk. "I don't think we have any."

"Then go and look it up."

-"In fact, _I'm sure_ we have none."

"You said that you would_ think_ so."

-"Okay, I'm sure we don't have banana juice. But I can buy some."

"You'd be away then."

-"Good deduction... If you don't want to be alone I could ask Mrs Hudson to come up here. I'm sure she wouldn't mind keeping you company."

"Why would I would mind being alone?"

John had to fight the urge to slap Sherlock. He could be really infuriating.

"So I should go?"

"I think **we** should go."

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, please. I thought we would be through with that. No excessive movement before the surgery or immediately after."

"I'm not asking for 'excessive' movement. Just a little trip to the supermarket!"

"And how to get you down and up the stairs? You have a broken leg, a messed up ankle and you can even use two crutches. Sorry, Sherlock, there's no way you are leaving this flat."

The Detective made a pout, but John only shook his head. He wasn't going to take any risks with Sherlock's health.

"Will you go to the supermarket then?"

John looked at him surprised. "You really want banana juice? I thought you'd just chosen something we don't have at home for sure..."


	3. Chapter 3

When John finally returned to Baker Street it was already dark. When he got into the flat he turned on the lights and felt a jolt of bad conscience for he didn't thought of them when he left.

"I'm really sorry, Sherlock... You shouldn't have had to lie in the dark."

Sherlock only uttered an indistinct sound and a frown appeared on John's face. What? No complains about him being stupid?

"Is something wrong?"

John took a closer look at his flat mate. He was lying on the couch, his eyes directed to the wall. His legs were covered with a blanket John didn't remember to have put there.

"You've been cold?"

Sherlock nodded slowly. The frown deepened. Since when did Sherlock get cold?

"You want some of the juice now?"

Sherlock shrugged, scowling as he accidentally moved his broken arm. John put the groceries aside and kneeled down next to Sherlock.

"You're feeling ill or something?" He put his hand on his flatmate's front to feel if he'd caught a fever.

"I'm fine", the detective groaned but he didn't slap John's hand away as he'd done before whenever John had felt for his temperature.

"Okay, okay." He raised his hands in a way of surrender.  
When he got up, he noticed a strange smell: deodorant and something lying underneath he couldn't quite place.

With frown John noticed Sherlock's deodorant lying next to the couch. He remembered it had stood on the living room table when he left.

He went to the kitchen and filled some of the banana juice into a glass.

"Voila, your banana juice" he said, hoping to cheer Sherlock up a little or at least trigger any kind of reaction, be it rejecting drink again.

He helped Sherlock into a sitting position; the detective had been lying down all day in order the keep the injured leg elevated. John would've expected him to demand staying upright after he finished drinking but he just lay back on the couch.

"Okay, now tell me what has happened. You're barely speaking and didn't even complain about me taking so long or letting you lie in the dark. This is the first time you get you've gotten cold and" he sniffed "what is this strange smell anyway?"

Sherlock stayed silent, his lips pressed together. John had just opened his mouth to push further when the answer finally came. It was quiet and barely audible.

"I didn't make it to the toilet."

John stared at his flatmate in confusion, before he finally got what Sherlock had said. He couldn't help a relieved laughter. Sherlock glared at him, his cheek slightly reddened.

"Don't laugh at me!"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock!" John said and his expression got serious. "I'm just relieved it isn't anything bad. I thought you would've fallen again."

-"Just don't tell Mycroft. Or anyone for that matter."

"Of course."

-"Promise!"

Sherlock looked right into his eyes and John felt how embarrassing the situation had to be for him.

"I promise," he said in earnest holding up his hands to show he didn't cross any fingers, even though he knew it was childish.

Then he slowly removed the blanket, revealing Sherlock's wet trousers. He shot Sherlock a look.

"May I?"

The Detective closed his eyes and nodded in resignation.

John worked quickly and without saying a word. He carefully removed Sherlock's boxer shorts, ignoring the small hiss of pain when he had to lift the broken leg.  
Then, he went to the kitchen and grabbed a wet washcloth to clean his friend's bottom and genitals.

The couch was also a little wet too and John knew he would have to clean it if he wanted to get rid of the smell. Now that Sherlock told him, it was easy enough to recognize underneath the deodorant Sherlock had used to hide his accident.

"How about sleeping in your own bed tonight?" John asked.

"Hm", Sherlock made and John took it as agreement.

The flat was too small to navigate a wheelchair and so John decided to allow Sherlock to use his crutches hoping it would restore some of Sherlock's hurt self-esteem.

He had to help the detective to get up, but once standing Sherlock was able to support himself with his good leg and a crutch.  
Walking proved to be still very difficult though and included much more hopping than John liked.

He offered Sherlock to try the wheelchair when he was halfway through the living room, but the detective pressed his lips together and shook his head.

When he'd finally reached his bed –John had changed the bedclothes and tidied up the room in the morning- he sank down on it instantly.

"I think I tired", Sherlock mumbled his words already slurred.

"No problem, go to sleep", John said softly. "I just have to put some pillows under your leg..."

Sherlock hmed, eyes opened no more than a crack. He groaned a little when John rose his legs, but his breaths were calming and when John was satisfied with the elevation he was fast asleep already.

For some minutes John just stood there, watching the chest of his friends fall and rise slowly.

If the casts hadn't been there, he might have looked peaceful. Then, Sherlock shifted unconsciously, a pained expression flashing over his face. John felt a jolt a pity but he knew he couldn't take this away from Sherlock.

"Everything will become all right again", John whispered, carefully lifting the blanket to cover the detective. "Sleep well."

Quietly John left the room to clean the couch, to make sure there would be no traces left of Sherlock's weakness.

* * *

**As always I'd be really glad to hear your opinion! **


	4. Chapter 4

John was woken by the sound of his mobile ringing. His movements clumsy with sleep, he reached for his phone, automatically fumbling for the button to reject the call and silence the device.

Then his look fell on the caller's ID and he felt like being thrown into icy water. 'Sherlock Holmes' it read.

"Sherlock?" He stumbled out of his bed. "Sherlock, are you all right?"

John didn't know what time is was exactly, but it was still dark.

"I want painkillers."

Sherlock's voice sounded crotchety and John felt his heart rate calm a little.

"I'll be there in a sec", John said whilst rushing down the stairs. He silently cursed himself for deciding to sleep in his own bedroom instead of somewhere closer to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock was lying on the bed just as John had left him but his expression looked pained.

"I can't sleep", he spat, shooting John an angry look as though it was his fault.

John sighed. "You know Mycroft doesn't approve of giving you too much pain medication.

"And so do I", he added, as he saw Sherlock opening his mouth to protest.

Sherlock looked at him with wide pleading eyes and John felt his resistance melting.

"Okay", he sighed. "Where are you hurt?"

"Why do I have to elaborate? I'm in pain, so you give me painkillers!"

John shook his head. "No, you're used to be an addict. I'm not going to offer you any drug based on an overall feeling of pain. It is normal to hurt when you have broken several bones."

Sherlock looked away making a pout.

"If you're not going to help me, you can leave alone!"

"I AM trying to help you! If you convince me that the level of pain is nothing you can bear I'll give you the pain meds."

"All right", Sherlock snapped. "My collarbone and my rips hurt when I breathe and when I adjust my position just a very slightly. My ankle hurts too but it more like a constant ache being magnified whenever I accidentally move in my sleep. It has woken me four times already and takes ages to wear off!"

John studied Sherlock expression closely; he could spot real despair on the detective's face. "All right," he sighed, "I'll give you some painkillers and a sleeping pill."

Relief crossed Sherlock's face and John felt a little bad for questioning his flatmate was in pain.

* * *

John spent the rest of the night in Sherlock's room. The fact Sherlock had had to _call_ him still shocked him, even though the Detective probably would've done the same if John had been in the living room or comparable close by.

The Detective's sleep appeared to be deep and he didn't wake another time what John was quite thankful for.

When Sherlock woke early in the morning, he seemed to feel rested and filled with a concerning amount of energy.

He insisted on getting up alone but John wouldn't allow that. They had an argument, which was finally won by John as Sherlock's attempts to get up on his own failed.

Walking was still difficult for the detective – how could it not be with a splinted leg?- but his movements had gotten faster and more determined and when he finally reached the couch after a short visit to the bathroom he wasn't as exhausted as the day before.

"I don't want to lie down again!", he snapped at John when the doctor arranged the pillows so Sherlock could put the injured leg on them. "I feel fine!"

"You will stop feeling fine very soon when you don't elevate the ankle properly." John explained and reached for the injured limb.

"No!" Sherlock made a pout and shifted away from John.

"Sherlock!"

They hold each other's gazes, a silent battle being fought.

"I don't want to just lie here all day", Sherlock mumbled, but allowed John to help him lie down. "It's boring!"

"You could watch TV", John suggested.

"TV is the _manifestation_ of boringness!"

"Then, read something. I'm sure Lestrade or Mycroft can organize some files."

"But I wouldn't even be able to confront the culprit with my deductions! Imagine Anderson would take the price for my work or something…

Wait! Where are you going?"

Sherlock had just noticed, John grabbed his jacket.

"To work", the doctor said, adjusting his collar.

"You want to leave me here alone? Like an abandoned lion cub in the desert?"

"An abandoned lion cub? There does this come from?  
Anyways, you're not alone. Mrs Hudson's is downstairs and Lestrade said he could come over, if you need company."

"But _you_ would be gone." Sherlock's looked at him with wide eyes and John couldn't help indeed being reminded of an abandoned cub.

"I told you already that I would go to work. And now promise you won't do anything stupid, so I can leave."

Sherlock just stared at the ceiling huffily.

"Come on! It's just some hours. And I promise we can do something you like afterwards... Another round of Cluedo, for example? You could sit up all time and I won't complain about you blaming the victim..."

Sherlock didn't seem very content with the arrangement but finally nodded. John let out a sigh of relief. "And you promise you won't try to do anything that will have bad effects on your health?"

There was another nod and John left the flat wondering if this promise was really something he could count on.

* * *

John should've known it was too early to leave Sherlock alone. It was just past noon when he received the call of a Mrs Hudson drenched in tears.

It took him some time to calm her down and to figure out what had happened: Apparently Sherlock had tried to walk and fallen, but she couldn't tell for sure as she couldn't enter the flat as she'd left her key inside when she had brought Sherlock some tea.

When John asked her how she'd known Sherlock fell she said she had heard a rumbling sound and when she asked if everything was okay Sherlock had told her to leave him alone.

The last part of the statement calmed John. If Sherlock was in pain he would've probably made a big fuss about getting painkillers and the fact he answered showed he wasn't unconscious.

Nevertheless, John abandoned his work instantly and rushed to Baker Street.

He found Sherlock lying right next to the couch. Apparently his tries to walk had ended before he'd even gotten up.

"You know, you have scared the hell out of Mrs Hudson?" John asked, as he lifted Sherlock to the couch again.

"I just wanted to go to the fridge", Sherlock grumbled.

"Sherlock! You have a sever ankle fracture, which is not even in a proper cast yet and you can only use one crutch because you've broken your arm. How can you even think about walking without someone there who can help you if you fall?"

The Detective simply glared.

John took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair.

"Have you at least not hurt yourself when pulling this stupid stunt?"

Sherlock shook his head and John examined him quickly with the same result. Only the swelling of the ankle was a little worse than when he left, but this was probably because the joint hadn't been elevated properly while Sherlock had lain on the floor.

Still John decided to stay with him for the rest of the day and he called the surgery to tell them he was taking another week off.

* * *

The following days were hell. Sherlock's mute was bad and constantly changing. He complained about everything and no matter how hard John tried there wasn't a way to please him. Worst was eating. John who admittedly wasn't a great cook spent hours in the kitchen only to find the food rejected by Sherlock.

"It tastes wrong!" Sherlock exclaimed and pushed the dish away with so much force it went over the edge of the living-room table. John reached forward but couldn't catch it before the food was spilled all over the carpet.

"Was this really necessary?" he asked while he tried to pick up the warm and sticky rice.

The Detective didn't answer but had another request. "The position of my leg is uncomfortable. Can you shift it a little to the right please?"

"I'll just finish cleaning this up, all right?" John replied through gritted teeth. It was the third time he had to clean the carpet after Sherlock had shoved a dish of food on it.

"No, my leg needs to be shifted now! It starts to hurt!"

John rolled his eyes and changed direction, walking Sherlock instead of the kitchen. He grabbed Sherlock's leg and moved it a little to the right.

"Ouch! You're being rough!"

John ignored Sherlock and turned to the carpet again. The sauce had been dark and would probably leave a urgly spot.

"Hey, I said you were rough! You hurt me!"

"Sherlock, I have only done what you asked for!"

"You could have been more gently though..." The detective made a pout.

John took a deep breath to calm himself. "Okay, I'm sorry. I should've been gentler. Satisfied?"

"You don't mean it..."

"Sherlock! I have only moved the your injured leg – the one you've recently tried to walk on, as I might point out- a little roughly. Be sure even if it might have hurt a little it didn't influence the healing process in any way."

"Okay", Sherlock grumbled, "I might forgive you if you bring me a slice of pizza."

"Sherlock, we've phoned almost every delivery service in London during the last few days and you've taken no more than a bite of the pizza!"

"Because it didn't taste the way I expected it!"

"Then you should probably reconsider your expectations!"

Sherlock glared, then he mumbled "All right, I promise I will eat at least a quarter of the pizza no matter how awful it tastes."

"A half" John insisted, but already reached for the phone.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "All right, three eighths."

While they waited for the pizza, John tried to read a new paper article about the newest reforms the government planned for the military. He had wanted to read it for the last two days, yet he'd just finished the first paragraph when Sherlock said: "I want to have a cigarette."

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, we've discussed this already. Smoking is not good for your bones. Furthermore, I don't see why you need the nicotine anyway. You complain there isn't enough to think about and if you think _faster_ you will have yourself occupied for even less time."

"I'm on painkillers, I don't have to think rationally!", Sherlock snapped.

"In fact, you're not on painkillers. You didn't have any for two days."

Sherlock looked to the ceiling and John frowned.

"Wait? You **didn't** have any, right?"

Sherlock didn't answer but suddenly seemed to be quite interested in the structure of the couch.

"Sherlock!"

"Well, I might have asked Mrs Hudson for one or two."

"One or two?"

"Three or four..."

John just kept his piercing look fixed on Sherlock.

"Okay, there were twelve in total!"

John sighed. This explained why Sherlock had stopped asking him for painkillers and why he didn't wince when his injured limbs were moved.

"You know you shouldn't take this too easy. Painkillers are something you can get easily addicted to and if you're sedated too much you might not realize, if you do any further damage to your limbs when moving."

"Yes, Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock, I'm not doing this to annoy you. If you are in pain, I will give you something but I'd rather know if you are on drugs."

John frowned. "Speaking of Mycroft; I haven't heard from him ever since your first day in hospital... Has he phoned you or anything?"

"No, fortunately not."

"Strange... I would've bet that he would check on you all time."

Sherlock shrugged. "Probably he talks to the doctors in the hospital. Why bother to see me if can have _**files**_?" He spat the last word.

"But the doctors didn't see you for the last five days. Their knowledge is hardly up to date."

"Maybe he trusts you to keep from doing anything I shouldn't."

"Yeah, probably..." John said but couldn't help wondering about the lack of Mycroft's interest in his brother. "By the way, as you probably know your surgery is scheduled for tomorrow. You won't be allowed breakfast so you should really consider eating the pizza..."

Sherlock scowled. "I don't think I feel hungry for pizza anymore..."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to make you anything else!"

"Really? Not a little steak even?"

"A steak? No!"

"But it has proteins and calcium which would be good for my bones..."

"Sherlock, I don't know how many times I told you but I will no longer cook anything what you don't eat anyway. You didn't even drink the banana juice I brought you on…" He paused to clear his throat. "…that day..."

Sherlock's expression went hard. John knew very well Sherlock didn't want to be reminded on the day he'd wetted himself but now the damage was already done.

"You didn't bring me banana juice. It was banana milk", Sherlock said quietly and John couldn't help feeling a little bad. No matter how infuriating Sherlock was, he still had to consider what the situation was like for the Detective. He was almost immobilized, had to rely on him for everything and probably his bones were hurting even with the painkillers.

"All right... You wanted a steak?"

Sherlock nodded and John got up to practise his poor cooking skills once again.

* * *

**I hope you liked the story so far and I'd be really glad if you left a review to tell what I can improve and what you liked!  
**


	5. Chapter 5

As Sherlock hadn't woken up in the past few days John had returned to sleeping in his own bed. This night though, the one before the surgery, he was woken by his phone again. At first he felt annoyed for he expected another silly request like opening the window or getting a glass of water of a certain temperature, but Sherlock's expression was serious when John came into the bedroom.

"Are your bones bothering you?" John asked softly. "I'm sorry, but I really don't think giving you painkillers would be a great idea now... You will need more than enough tomorrow when we take you to the hospital..."

But Sherlock shook his head. "No, I feel all right... Quite good in fact. Do you really think I need surgery?"

There was some pleading in Sherlock's eyes when they locked with John's.  
John sighed. "That's what it is about. You're afraid."

Sherlock shot John a hurt look.

"I'm not afraid." The detective snapped. "I'm just a little concerned..."

"You don't have to be. It is unlikely there will be any complications and furthermore it is necessary if you ever want to use your foot again."

"I know. But that still doesn't mean I like it much..."

They said there in silence for a while. John felt the urge to comfort Sherlock but holding the Detective's hand seemed awkward and John didn't think Sherlock would like it.

"Do you think I'll be able to walk again?"

There was genuine concern in Sherlock's voice.

"Of course", John said he knew it sounded like a statement simply uttered to reassure his flatmate. "You're young and healthy. It will take some times for your bones to heal but they will eventually."

"Eventually," Sherlock spat. "I don't want to be like this anymore, John. I don't want to rely on you for every movement."

John gave him a wry smile. "Could be worse. Imagine you'd had to be cared for by Mycroft."

It was supposed to be a joke, but Sherlock's expression turned grim.

"When I was very young, I broke my hip" Sherlock said quietly. "It was a complicated fracture and I had to stay in hospital for almost a month. Mycroft was in school already but he came every day telling me stories, giving me riddles to solve and every evening he would read to me, staying until I fell asleep. I would've gone crazy without him."

John sat there silent he felt there was more to the story and indeed Sherlock continued.

"But then on the day before my surgery he didn't came. I was scared, I wanted to run away. In fact I even tried to run but of course I didn't make it far. I only managed to drop from the bed and then I lay there. I was in pain, I cried, but only a nurse came to pick me up and not my brother.

This night was the last I cried myself to sleep."

"Did Mycroft tell you why he didn't come?"

"He said we'd grown to close that I would only get hurt if I couldn't be without him."  
Sherlock looked away and John knew it was to hide he was about to cry. After all those years his voice had still sounded hurt and John finally understand why Sherlock despised his brother so much.

He didn't know what to say. As he saw Sherlock lying there with his arm in cast and the splinted leg it was very easy to picture the little crying boy who had just been abandoned by his brother.

"I won't leave you", John said quietly.

Sherlock nodded quietly, still fighting the tears.

"Will you read to me?" Sherlock asked finally in a low voice.

"Sure. What book?"

"Peter Pan."


End file.
